


Doggone Batty

by Kedreeva



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Misunderstandings, Neighbors, Other, Vampire Crowley (Good Omens), Werewolf Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23517223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: Aziraphale, a werewolf who never fit in well with the rest of his pack, moves into a house he's just inherited a long ways away. The only problem is that he finds there's something more than a little amiss with his new neighbor.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 191
Kudos: 632
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CardiacCrisis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardiacCrisis/gifts).



> This was done as a thank you to CardiacCrisis for their contributions to the Fandom Trumps Hate charity event. The prompt was to write (with permission) off of the idea in [this post](https://wheeloffortune-design.tumblr.com/post/190580443620) (only click if you want spoilers for the twist at the story's end).

He didn’t want to be here.

He had parked his small rental car as close to the house as possible, but the drive to the house ended at the detached garage that held his aunt’s car- or rather, his car, now. Carrying in the two large duffel bags, a backpack, and several plastic bags of supplies wouldn’t exactly be a _challenge_ , but that didn’t mean he wanted to do it. If he brought them in, he would have to unpack and if he unpacked, it meant he was staying and if he was staying… well, best not to think too far ahead, he told himself.

With a too-dramatic sigh, he fiddled the key into the lock and let himself into the darkened house. He was not sure what he expected when he switched the light on, but it was definitely not the clean, white space he found.

The floors were polished hardwood, except in the sitting room where a huge telly hung on the wall and the plushness of the carpet nearly made up for the fact that the only couch was made of worn, white leather. A neat pile of books sat atop the coffee table and, aside from the portrait of a foggy mountain forest on the far wall, provided the only splash of color.

Aziraphale trailed a hand over the white marble counters in the kitchen. They were spotless, seemingly unused. The sink was empty, the pale dishes put away behind glass-doored cabinets. There was a white stove, and a white microwave, and a white dishwasher. It felt rather like walking around a museum after hours, as though he ought to look and not touch, and certainly not live here.

The rest of the house was not much better. The bathroom and the bedroom were both done in the same eye-burning white as everything else. Aziraphale pulled all of the covers off of the bed and laid spread-eagle upon the bare mattress for a few minutes, allowing his tears to fall freely down the sides of his face. It was not exactly _sadness_ , although he was sick with that as well, to be here when she was not. It was frustration and loneliness and anxiety piling up over everything that had happened, everything he had done after, and everything he still had left to do, and it was too much at once. So he lay there, staring up at the slowly-rotating white fan, the blades casting shadows upon the white ceiling, and he cried where no one could see him.

He wanted to scream.

Screaming, however, might draw the attention of his brand new neighbors, as distant as they were, and remaining here to cry would get nothing done, so instead he wiped his face and returned to downstairs. Just outside the kitchen he found the door that led to the backyard. It was a sliding door, with broad, chewed-up handles suction-cupped to the inside and the outside of it so it could be opened without hands. He snorted, smiling around the lump still in his throat. His aunt Alma had always been clever.

His gaze shifted, looking past the glass and out into his new backyard. The term was not exactly accurate; the property backed up to a huge nature preserve, one owned and tended by his family for generations. Or rather, one owned by certain parts of his family. The parts of his family that did not want to be part of the family.

Aside from Aziraphale, no one in the pack had heard from Alma in years, right up until a human showed up on their doorstep with a very serious “good news-bad news” declaration. The bad news was that their aunt had passed away. The good news was that she had left her entire estate to Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone. He was still not sure that was _actually_ good news. Gabriel certainly hadn’t taken it well when Aziraphale said he was leaving the pack to go to America and follow in Alma’s footsteps, to guard the family woodland preserve. He’d taken it even _less_ well when Aziraphale had made it clear he was not going to give any part of the estate to Gabriel, nor were Gabriel or the others invited to come along. He had, in effect, severed his ties to his entire pack.

That part, at least, had been a blessing. Aziraphale had never really gotten along with the other werewolves in his pack. Michael played too many mind games and Sandalphon and Uriel were bullies. Raphael had been alright, but his job kept him from spending much time with anyone, and when he _was_ around, Gabriel tended to monopolize his attention.

Still… it had been a comfort, knowing he was not alone. Even bad company was better than no company, at least for his kind. He didn’t know how Alma did it all these years, living in this sanitized house that in no way resembled a home, all by herself. He supposed he could just get her affairs in order from here, sell everything, and move back home on his own. He doubted Gabriel would ever come to check to see if he was here still, and it was not like he would need to tell Gabriel he was back.

Maybe he could just find another pack to join.

It happened, sometimes.

He made a bit of a miserable noise, and began to unbutton his shirt. He was fooling no one, least of all himself. There was no reason for another pack to take him; Gabriel’s pack had barely tolerated him, and Michael had been sure to remind Aziraphale at every opportunity that no one else would bother to do _that_. Packs took in new members if those members were powerful, and Aziraphale was… soft, to put it mildly. He wanted to live a quiet life, reading and writing and having the occasional howl at the moon.

Was that too much to ask?

Gabriel had certainly thought so.

Aziraphale folded his coat and set it on the small table beside the back door. He made short work of the rest of his clothing, stacking it there as well, and then let the shift take him, his hands condensing into paws, his arms and legs bending into shape, his face lengthening out into a proper set of jaws. Maybe he would just… go for a run. Check out the preserve, scout out the neighboring houses, clear his head a little. It had been a long flight, and it was going to be a longer month while he tried to get everything in order and decide if he wanted to stay or go.

He grabbed onto the chewed-up handle and tugged, opening the door for himself without needing hands and found himself thinking again how clever his aunt had been. He was going to miss her terribly.

His paws hit the dirt, and he took off running, intent on checking out exactly what he had just inherited.

* * *

Overall, the preserve was… peaceful. Aziraphale ran the borders of it full-tilt for a couple of hours without seeing a single human, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to do that. It had felt kind of nice, too, not seeing any other werewolves, and he didn’t try to examine that closely; he was supposed to be a pack animal, built to _want_ to run shoulder-to-shoulder with his brethren, built to _want_ to be near others. He knew he should want those things, and he _did,_ except that _those things_ and _those people_ didn’t align very well.

Which was, he concluded, how he found himself following the siren’s call of a soft, singing voice. It was not hard to find the source; the man standing in the middle of the orchard was not trying to hide or be quiet. There was no need to be; although this property ran alongside Aziraphale’s aunt’s, there was no way any occupant that was not a werewolf would have been close enough to hear him.

Aziraphale raised his nose, trying to catch a bit of the man’s scent, but the air was deathly still tonight. He padded a little closer, knowing that even in the dark his shining white pelt would be visible. He didn’t want to scare a human, but that _voice_. Almost of their own accord, his ears leaned toward the sound, and Aziraphale half-expected to find an actual angel doing the singing.

What he found was decidedly _not_.

In fact, he realized as he got close enough to really see him, the being was neither a human nor an angel, but a demon.

Well, Aziraphale thought, a _vampire_ , technically, but weren’t they basically the same thing? Evil creatures, harmful to the humans werewolves preferred to protect. They were dead things that hadn’t the sense to realize it, at least if one were to believe Gabriel’s opinion of them.

But… Aziraphale took a step closer, body curving around the trunk of a large cherry tree in a paltry attempt to stay hidden. The vampire had not seen him, his attention and delicate fingers both focused on checking the apples growing thick on the tree before him. A breeze stirred, flicking at the vampire’s long, loose curls and coming to tickle at Aziraphale’s nose with the scent of…

Of nothing, he realized, or nothing he had been expecting, anyway. There was no scent of stale blood, no decaying flesh, none of the usual stink of death that marked a vampire. His eyes were unmistakably yellow even by the dim light of a barely new moon, and he still smelled of cold, dead flesh, but the clean sort kept in fridges. Aziraphale wondered if perhaps new vampires smelled less of death than the ones he’d been told of. He’d never actually met one, personally, but surely they deserved Gabriel’s opinion of them.

The singing stopped, and Aziraphale’s fur hackled, but the vampire didn’t turn to him when he spoke. “Hello there, puppy. You don’t have to hide, I won’t hurt you.”

Aziraphale could feel his lips curling back from his long teeth at the degrading moniker. He was not a _puppy_. He was a rather massive wolf, perfectly capable of defending himself. Perfectly capable of dealing with a single _vampire_.

“In _fact,_ ” the vampire continued, drawing out the last word as though speaking to a small child, “if you were to come over here, I might just give you a few ear scritches.”

Aziraphale blinked. _Ear scritches?_ Vampires were not, Aziraphale was very certain, given to addressing werewolves in this manner. They were hereditary enemies!

“No?” the vampire inquired, finally turning to look at him. “My apologies, maybe you’re the belly rub sort instead? Hard to tell. Don’t see too many dogs around these parts. Not ones that’ll come near me, at least.” He stuck out a hand in invitation, palm up as though he expected Aziraphale to come sniff it, and made a soft tutting noise.

Aziraphale stared.

Had the vampire somehow mistaken him for an _actual_ dog?

Slowly, Aziraphale’s fur smoothed down and his mouth closed and he found himself taking a tentative step closer. He knew he was supposed to hate vampires, that they were evil and killed humans and wanted to kill werewolves, but this one didn’t seem to be like that. Aziraphale did not quite get all the way to wondering if Gabriel was _wrong_ , but it couldn’t hurt to corroborate that Gabriel was right, surely? And vampires may hate _werewolves_ , but this one seemed as though he might like _dogs._ Aziraphale had grown quite good at swallowing his pride in order to do what was necessary for the good of his pack, and if he was going to be selling-

Except… he couldn’t sell his aunt’s home now, not knowing there was a vampire right next door. Maybe that was why she had stayed so long, herself. Maybe she had been protecting the humans of the area from this vampire, as though the humans were her pack. But… one vampire surely was not a match for a pack, and she could have called upon her actual pack to come help her. The only reason she wouldn’t have at least alerted them was if she honestly did not believe they could beat him. If she thought they would die in the fight.

Aziraphale swallowed. If Aunt Alma had thought that this creature was powerful enough to beat an entire pack of werewolves, perhaps it was best he had assumed Aziraphale was just a dog. Perhaps it would be best if he continued to believe that.

Right, Aziraphale told himself, straightening up some. He would need to do some investigating in person, to figure out what the situation was before he considered asking Gabriel for help, and certainly before inviting him to take over for him. So, as best as he could, he swished his tail to one side, and then the other, and opened his mouth to let his tongue spill out into the dopey expression he was given to understand dogs wore around humans.

“Yeahhh,” the vampire said, breaking out into a beautiful smile that gave Aziraphale’s heart a good hard skip. “You’re the belly rub sort, I can tell. Come here, boy.”

Steeling himself for a potential betrayal, Aziraphale got close enough to sniff at the vampire’s outstretched hand, and gave it a tentative lick. It tasted faintly of salt and carried the scent of the fruits he’d been tending. When the vampire raised his hand, Aziraphale braced himself, eyes closing, but what followed was only the gentle brush of fingers over his soft ear, blunt nails digging down toward the skin through the fluff. The vampire’s touch was chill, following down to the shorter fur of Aziraphale’s jaw, and despite his misgivings, Aziraphale found himself leaning into it a little more.

It had been a _very_ long time since he’d gotten a gentle touch.

His tail wagged again, this time of its own accord.

“My name’s Crowley,” the vampire said, his fingers coming around to Aziraphale’s throat as if searching. “What’s your- oh. You’re not wearing a collar, huh? I bet you belong to that new guy. Alma’s nephew. He’s got good taste in dogs, at least, you’re _beautiful,_ aren’t you? Such soft fur and pretty blue eyes. Such a good boy, yes you are.”

Crowley’s hands followed his words down Aziraphale’s spine, and he nearly didn’t realize that he’d moved to lean against Crowley’s leg until Crowley thumped his ribs. It was vaguely horrifying just how easily he had been turned to putty for what should have been his mortal enemy. He wondered, very briefly, if Aunt Alma had had the same problem, but decided that she would have said _something_.

There was a soft pressure around his neck, and Aziraphale startled when he realized Crowley had put something around it. A noose. A chain. He backed up and the twine tightened until Crowley grabbed his ruff in one hand to keep him from strangling himself, his strength far more than human.

“None of that, now,” he chided, firmly but gently. “I’m just going to take you home. I bet your owner’s worried about you. I would be if I had such a good boy that was missing.”

Aziraphale froze. Home. Crowley hadn’t captured him. He was not attempting to drag him away to his lair to kill or eat or whatever vampires were wont to do with captured werewolves. He was going to return him to an owner he didn’t have.

When he relaxed, Crowley released his ruff, and stood up again. “That’s it. Come on. Dogs like walks, right? That is absolutely the limit of my knowledge- belly rubs and walks.”

Aziraphale allowed himself to be led across the orchard and onto the expansive lawns between their homes. It was a fairly long walk, one that left a certain amount of tension in Aziraphale’s shoulders as he worried what Crowley would do when he found no one was home. A human might not leave a stray dog outside of an unattended home. A human might take them home and wait until the owner came to pick up their dog.

Crowley, it seemed, had not gotten that memo. When the front door proved to be locked, he went around back and found the open sliding door. He herded Aziraphale inside and then removed the makeshift collar from around his neck, tucking the twine back into his pocket.

“There you are,” Crowley said. “It was nice to meet you uh… White Dog. You go find your owner, and don’t get lost again, alright?”

Slowly, Crowley began to close the door, and then he hesitated.

Then he frowned, and pulled the door open enough to join Aziraphale inside, and closed the door behind him. “Odd,” he said softly. “I don’t hear anyone in here. Did your dad leave you too? Maybe he’s just out looking for you still. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Aziraphale panicked. If he searched the house, he was going to discover there was no one here; there was not even anything to support someone being here. The car was still packed, but even if his belongings had been brought in, there was nothing among them fit for keeping a dog. Crowley would guess. He would realize Aziraphale _was_ the dog, and that would end poorly.

So he did what no self-respecting werewolf would do, and whined quite pitifully as soon as Crowley started to move into the house.

Crowley stopped. He looked between Aziraphale and the darkened interior of the house, and then gave a little nod. “Alright. You’re right. Not my business. I’ll just come around later and make sure he’s really here to take care of you, shall I?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just let himself back out the door and disappeared into the night. Aziraphale sagged where he stood and let out a breath. This was not at _all_ going like he had imagined. He was going to have to make a plan, and quick.

* * *

The following day, when Aziraphale finally managed to drag himself off the couch, he showered, unloaded the car into a pile in the middle of the front room, and went to find the nearest town. He had meant to find somewhere to get a nice cup of tea, as Aunt Alma’s cupboards had been bare, but he ended up happening across an adorable little bakery that had been open since the wee hours of the morning. There were sweet treats and breads and coffee and, importantly, several kinds of teas all served in real mugs. Aziraphale purchased one of their branded travel mugs and a toffee-chip scone for himself, and a pair of apple fritters in an eggshell-white box to take home.

Afterward, he took himself to the nearest petshop to purchase food and water bowls, dog food of a quality Crowley couldn’t judge him for, a collar and leash, and a few toys to scatter around the house. He did not have an actual dog to use any of it, but if he could keep Crowley from being too suspicious too quickly, then he had to try. He had to keep up the ruse until at least the next full moon, when he stood any chance at all of taking on the vampire.

When he got back, he unloaded the car and set up the dog items as lifelike as he was able, trying to determine where, exactly, one would put a dog food bowl, or where a dog would take its toys. Afterward, he dropped the mug off in the sink to wash later, and then screwed up his courage and walked the pastry box a quarter mile down the road to Crowley’s. The lights were all off, and the door was locked, and on the one hand Aziraphale _knew_ that Crowley was not going to answer the door, but on the other hand… he had still hoped he was mistaken. He had hoped there wouldn’t be the _need_ for a fight.

Vampires, from everything he had heard, were entirely helpless during daylight hours. They retreated to whatever light-tight hole they had made for themselves, and as soon as the sun would breach the horizon, they would go utterly unconscious. The easiest way to kill a vampire, Sandalphon had once told him, was for the pack to chase them until sun-up. If the vampire could be kept away from their haven, they would eventually just drop unconscious without a fight.

That was, unless they could transform into a bat, but only the very, very old ones could do that. Even younger ones that could not transform rarely decided to put up an actual fight; a single vampire was no match for a pack, and vampires almost never grouped up.

This one was no exception. _Almost_ no exception, anyway. He was alone, but he seemed… peaceful, almost. Gentle, anyway. Nice. Not the sort of creature that went around killing folks by sucking out all of their blood. But, well, Aziraphale reasoned to himself, he wouldn’t get very far if he did seem like the sort; humans were wary creatures after all.

Aziraphale knocked one more time, hoping that Crowley would answer, hoping that Crowley would open the door and prove Aziraphale wrong. Prove that he was human. Prove that he was _safe_.

But the door remained stubbornly closed, and Aziraphale was forced to leave the fritters on the doorstep with the hand-written note he had penned in the shop while he drank his tea and tried not to be too nervous about doing exactly what he was doing now. The walk home seemed lonelier somehow.

* * *

Aziraphale startled awake to a knocking upon the front door. He startled again when the book that had been lying on his chest toppled to the floor with a loud noise. Blearily, he groped at the reading glasses on his face and managed to set them on the small cabinet beside the couch where he must have fallen asleep reading. He hadn’t had the peace and quiet to do that in _ages_.

“Coming!” he called, appalled at how scratchy his voice came out.

When he drew open the door, he was not particularly surprised to find Crowley standing there. Crowley looked him up and down once, passed some kind of judgment, and said, “Oh, did I wake you?” even though it was very clear that he had.

“Can I help you?” Aziraphale asked, just barely remembering not to say Crowley’s name; they hadn’t actually _met_ as people-shaped beings yet and Aziraphale wasn’t going to be giving away the only possible advantage he currently had over his neighborly fiend.

Who was not, Aziraphale thought, looking particularly fiendish as he ducked his head, suddenly off-balance and stammered: “Wh- you- I just wanted to say thank you, for the uh… donuts.”

Aziraphale did not correct him. “Thank you for bringing my dog home. It was you, wasn’t it? I just… assumed, since there’s no one else around. He um… took off when I opened the car door.” Aziraphale had thought of a lot of explanations for why his dog had been running loose and although they were all much better than the one he’d just given, that one was the only one that had woken up with him.

Crowley straightened a little. “Uh… yeah. He came by my orchard looking for some belly rubs. I didn’t give him any, if you’re worried, that’s strictly for second playdates.” The entire time he was talking, he was leaning slightly more and more to the left, trying to look over Aziraphale’s shoulder and into the house. “Funny, I expected he’d come to the door with you. I wanted to say hi.”

Aziraphale’s sleep-muzzy brain caught up to the present conversation and he realized he didn’t have an explanation for why his dog was not there with him now. He’d been returned. It seemed like a bit of an oversight, in retrospect. Of course Crowley would expect to see both of them at the same time- he didn’t know they were the same person. Same being.

“Well, I… I- he’s at a kennel,” Aziraphale said. “He’s a bit of a- you see, he gets into things, and I haven’t put locks on anything yet.”

“Ah,” Crowley said, slumping a little.

“He’ll be back tomorrow,” Aziraphale offered, unsure why he felt so guilty. It seemed as though Crowley had really been looking forward to seeing his dog. The dog he didn’t have. The dog that was him. Wolf. The _wolf_ that was him. What a mess, he thought.

“What’s his name?” Crowley asked, then gestured to his own throat. “Wasn’t wearing a collar.”

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale answered, a second before he realized what a terrible answer that was.

Crowley’s look said he thought the same thing. “Funny name for a dog, isn’t it?”

“It’s not,” Aziraphale said indignantly, despite that he’d had exactly the same thought two seconds prior. “It’s a good name.”

Crowley shrugged, accepting that. “And what’s your name?”

Aziraphale stared mutely at him for a moment, but he was not about to make up a name for himself. He didn’t need to try to remember that on top of remembering to pretend he was human. “...Aziraphale.”

“...You named your dog after yourself?” Crowley asked.

“Well it’d be stranger if I was named after the dog, wouldn’t it?” Aziraphale said, startling a little when Crowley burst out laughing. He could not explain the little stutter in his chest at how bright and full the noise was, or why he wanted so much to hear it again.

“I suppose it would, yeah,” Crowley agreed, sticking out a hand. “My name’s Anthony Crowley, though most people just call me Crowley.”

Tentatively, Aziraphale took the offered handshake, and whatever joy his heart had found in Crowley’s laugh left him at the touch of cold flesh. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said anyway, forcing a smile.

“Do you really call him that whole thing?” Crowley asked when he released Aziraphale’s hand. “Aziraphale. Big name for a big dog, I guess. Must be weird to shout your own name when he’s the one getting into trouble though.”

Aziraphale swallowed, sure that the jig was up, but Crowley didn’t push any further than that. “I- uh, I don’t… shout. And we both get into trouble, thank you.”

“Of course,” Crowley agreed, with a bit of a strange smile on his lips. “Well, I suppose I should let you get back to sleep. I’m glad he made it back to you safely.”

“Thanks to you,” Aziraphale said, surprised to find he meant it. He was genuinely grateful and a bit relieved that Crowley had tried to return a lost dog to a human neighbor. It had been a kind thing to do, an unusual thing for a vampire, and it meant there was a small chance that things wouldn’t come down to a fight between them for the safety of the nearby humans. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

“Goodnight Aziraphale,” Crowley told him with a little wave, and then he was gone, so quickly it seemed as though the darkness had just swallowed him up whole.


	2. Chapter 2

In light of his desire to prove that Crowley was a _good_ vampire, or at least not a _bad_ vampire, Aziraphale decided he must continue to gather intel. It was not _spying_ , exactly, although he had a much harder time convincing himself of that fact while peering out of the small window in the kitchen which faced Crowley’s property. The house was quite a ways down the street, and nothing happened during the day at all – not unexpected, considering vampires were very unconscious through it – which was how Aziraphale found himself unpackaging a brand new set of binoculars after a hurried trip to town.

He fell asleep the first night, but the second his patient vigil paid off and he caught the small, blue car that parked in Crowley’s driveway, and the young woman who got out. She was dressed as if she wasn’t quite in touch with modern styles, with thick-rimmed glasses and her hair done such that it gave her a more severe look than her youth otherwise would. Aziraphale didn’t make it out the front door in time to stop her from going inside; she didn’t even knock.

She did, however, come out alive only twenty minutes later, well before Aziraphale had decided how he was going to get in the house to save her. Around her neck she had wrapped a thin scarf, doubtless to hide the bite marks Crowley had left upon her, and she carried a small bag that hadn’t gone in with her.

Perhaps he was paying for blood, Aziraphale thought anxiously. That wasn’t… great, but surely that was better than taking blood without permission. Surely that was a lot better than _killing_ for it. If the victim had a choice…

But, he supposed that any situation which required use of the word _victim_ probably was not a good situation. Gabriel would have had words to say about it. Gabriel would have put a stop to it immediately.

But Gabriel wasn’t here, and Crowley had just fed, and the moon was nowhere near full. If he was going to confront Crowley, it wouldn’t be tonight, and it wouldn’t be with so little knowledge. If he was going to confront Crowley, he needed to know more. He needed to be in the house when the next victim arrived, so that he could put a stop to it in the moment.

After a nap that was too long to be just a nap and not long enough to be useful sleep, Aziraphale sat down at the tidy little kitchen table with a piece of paper, a pen, and the rather fetching tartan collar he had bought earlier. He stared at it for entirely too long before scribbling down just two short sentences and folding it twice in half. Using a rubber band, he wrapped the paper snugly around the collar, and then sat there and stared blankly at it.

Was he _really_ going to put on a collar, just to spy on his new neighbor?

Well. Not so much spy on his _neighbor_ as spy on a _vampire_ , but Aziraphale hadn’t really seen him getting up to anything _evil_ yet. Crowley took care of fruit trees and brought home wayward dogs and said _thank you_ for pastries he couldn’t even eat, and laughed like the sun he probably hadn’t seen in decades.

And he invited young human ladies over, and paid them for their blood.

“What a nightmare,” Aziraphale murmured fretfully. Surely Aunt Alma could have warned him about any of this…

But then, she’d always been a bit like that. Ineffable, one might say. Always with a plan, never telling anyone what it was. If she hadn’t told him about Crowley, about how she’d been living next to a vampire for an obviously long time, she must have had a good reason. Aziraphale must be meant to find out on his own.

With a sigh, he carefully stripped and folded his clothing to set on the table for when he returned. The collar felt heavy in his hands, heavier than it should have been, but he only hesitated a little before clipping it around his neck. It was _much_ too large for a human, hanging loose like a long necklace all the way to his sternum, but it fit quite well once he’d shifted into his wolf form.

Aziraphale shook himself once, and then let himself out the back door, careful to leave it open behind himself. The distance between his house and Crowley’s seemed much shorter when he could sprint most of the way. In fact, the run left him no time at all to consider what he might do once he _got_ there, which left him standing awkwardly on Crowley’s doorstep with the realization that he didn’t exactly have _hands_ to knock with. He stood, staring up at the wrought-iron knocker and thinking about whether or not it would be strange for a dog to use it when he realized, well, dogs _bark_ , don’t they?

So he did. He barked, and then barked again, and once he’d started he realized it actually felt quite good, and he only stopped when Crowley ripped the door open and told him to shut up.

Then Aziraphale did his best impression of a vacant golden retriever, and wagged his tail and let his tongue loll out of his mouth as he stared up at Crowley.

“Lost again, are you?” Crowley said, one hand on the edge of the door and one hand on the frame as he stared down at Aziraphale. “You’ve barely been back a day. Come on, then, let’s get you home.”

He reached for Aziraphale’s collar and Aziraphale ducked just out of reach, leaving Crowley a little off balance and paying a lot closer attention. Aziraphale wagged his tail again and bent his head as though to sniff something on the stoop, which bared the message banded to his collar. A second later Crowley had a hand around it, and was gently tugging the paper free.

“Did you bring me a message?” Crowley asked with a little laugh as he freed the paper and began to unfold it. “Is that what this is about? Your dad’s daft. Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to send a pigeon? Though I suppose that went out of fashion ages ago. It’s all _emails_ and _text messages_ now.”

Aziraphale snorted, which came out as more of a sneeze. He wasn’t fond of emails and text messages. Gabriel liked them. Michael liked them more. He certainly didn’t want to be as available to either of them as electronic communication had made him lately. He watched Crowley skim the note, and then look at him with one cocked brow.

“Did you read this?” he asked, and Aziraphale froze, breath caught as he thought for a second Crowley was actually _asking_ him. Then Crowley waved the note at him and tsked. “He says you’re _not_ lost, and I can send you home if you’re a bother. You’re not a bother, are you?”

Aziraphale wuffed softly, and Crowley laughed, opening the door wide enough Aziraphale could squeeze in past his knees.

“Oi,” Crowley said as Aziraphale did so without hesitation. “Not even going to wait, think you own the place do you?”

Without acknowledging Crowley’s protests at all, Aziraphale set his nose to the ground and began to have a sniff around the place. He didn’t _smell_ any blood, but that only meant Crowley was exceptionally good at cleaning up after himself. What he _did_ smell was dust and damp earth and the bowl of fruit on the coffee table. Running beneath that was the stale scent of a campfire and the layered scent of a pleasant soap, or possibly shampoo. He could just barely catch the trace of another person, a girl, but it was nearly obscured by the sharp tang of… of-

Aziraphale made a choked, gagging noise as Crowley grabbed his collar and hauled him backward, away from the plants he’d been padding toward.

“Nuh-uh,” Crowley chided, not letting go even when Aziraphale’s front paws touched the hardwood floor again. “First rule of visiting my house- don’t touch the plants. You won’t like how they taste, definitely won’t like what happens after. D’you understand?”

There wasn’t a good way for Aziraphale to answer the vague threat, so he just thumped his tail on the ground and picked a different direction to explore. The kitchen seemed as good a place as any to go. The tile floor was chilly and pristine, the countertops made of thick, cool marble, and the chrome appliances all looked brand new and unused. They probably _were_. In fact, the only thing that made the kitchen look at all like a place that saw use rather than a photo in a stock magazine was the piles of fruit all over the counters.

This was, understandably, puzzling to say the least. Vampires didn’t _eat_ human foods, they ate humans _as_ food. Parts of humans, as food, anyway. It wasn’t even as though they just didn’t get anything from human foods; if they ate it, they would become ill. So what, Aziraphale thought as he sniffed around the edge of the counters, was Crowley doing with so much fruit?

Perhaps he sold it, Aziraphale decided. It would be awfully difficult to hold down a job if one went catatonic at dawn and couldn’t come in until after dark, so perhaps Crowley made money selling the fruits of his labors quite literally.

“I don’t think the fruit’d agree with you much more than the other plants, but I did get a bag of treats for you,” Crowley said from the doorway, where he plucked a plastic baggie from against the wall. It was small and looked, as nearly as Aziraphale could tell from his limited experience, like a very expensive, fancy sort of treat.

Unfortunately, it was still a _dog treat_ , and Aziraphale had _standards_ when it came to food, so when Crowley offered him one of the things, he closed his mouth and turned his head to the side. Thankfully, this seemed to amuse Crowley rather than offend him.

“Bit spoiled then, are you?” he said, popping the treat back into the bag and sealing it carefully. “Your dad must be feeding you really well, if you’ll turn your nose up at these.”

He set the treats back on the counter and leaned on his hand against it, drumming his fingers and staring at Aziraphale. After a long, awkward moment, he let out a breath and straightened decisively. “Alright then. You’ll just have to keep me company while I look after the trees in the garden.”

Aziraphale followed him through the house to the back door, and dashed past him once it was open. Crowley just grinned at him as he buckled on a work belt, and then walked around the side of the house to turn on a spigot with a hose leading away from it. At the sound of water, Aziraphale’s ears and head shot up and he peered into the darkness looking for a sprinkler. There wasn’t one, however. Putting his nose down, Aziraphale followed Crowley along the length of the hose, to where it ran back and forth among all of the trees, leaking from small holes to soak the ground without creating a spray.

“You know, I killed them all the first time I planted,” Crowley told him, as they reached the first of the trees. “Turns out, you can’t use a sprinkler at night, or the leaves all rot because there’s no sun to dry them off. I tried leaving it on during the day instead, the second time. Too much water, that.”

He began to walk among the trees, looking at things Aziraphale could not determine- the fruits, or the leaves, or the branches. He clipped a few of the branches seemingly at random. Sometimes he would take a piece of fruit and put it into a pouch hanging from the belt. This was, Aziraphale was pretty sure, the wrong time of year to be picking some of these fruits, a theory which was corroborated by the faint scent of magic clinging to them. It smelled occult but not supernatural, which meant whatever it was, Crowley probably had not done it to them himself.

“It’s better in the fall,” Crowley admitted to him, over an hour into his tending, interrupting Aziraphale’s thoughts. They were nearly to the back edge of the orchard, and Aziraphale could see small fields of berries; blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, blackberries… not all of them were ready, but most of them were further along than the trees. “All the trees will be so loaded down with fruit they’ll barely stay upright. I’ll freeze most of them, juice the rest of them. Terrible work, juicing. Sticky. You wouldn’t like it. Your dad might; does he drink wine? Cider? I’ll have to ask.”

They spent another hour outside like that, walking the lines of berry plants with Crowley murmuring softly to Aziraphale as if he was a person and not a dog – which he was, although Crowley didn’t know that. Eventually, Aziraphale guessed, they were actually just busy being outside and enjoying the clear, starry sky instead of doing any work.

This was the sort of night the pack would have loved to go running through. They wouldn’t have howled, but they’d have run, full tilt, for as long as they could. Aziraphale had never been much for running. This leisurely stroll through the night with Crowley suited him much better, and he tried not to think about what that might imply.

When there were no more excuses to stay outside, Crowley walked them back to the house, and let Aziraphale in first. Aziraphale shook himself off in the kitchen, even though there wasn’t really a reason to, and then followed Crowley out to a sitting room. He hadn’t really thought about vampires having sitting rooms, but there it was, with a comfortable-looking couch and a flatscreen TV, and even a bookshelf. There was a coffee table, even though Aziraphale was very certain Crowley couldn’t _drink_ coffee.

In a way, it made a bit of sense. Vampires, while evil, had been humans once. Some werewolves had been humans, but most of them – Aziraphale included – were born into it and didn’t know any other way to live than to be werewolves. Vampires, Aziraphale had begun to realize, were more like bitten wolves, hanging onto human ways of life. Watching television shows and reading books and going to farmer’s markets and such.

But however much sense it did or did not make, watching Crowley flop down onto the couch and prop his feet up on the coffee table and switch on the telly left Aziraphale in a state of cognitive dissonance. It was too _normal_. It was too… innocent. Vampires didn’t do innocent things. Vampires weren’t innocent; they couldn’t be. It was not in their nature.

Crowley thumped the couch next to him, drawing Aziraphale’s attention. “You coming up?” he asked, patting the couch again. “Or do I need to let you out to go home?”

Aziraphale hesitated. He didn’t want to go home. He had a job to do, certainly, but also… there was no one there. As long as he stayed here, he had company, even if it was… well.

More than a bit clumsily, Aziraphale scrabbled his way up onto the couch beside Crowley. He should have just jumped it, but he didn’t know how soft or firm the cushions would be, and didn’t fancy toppling face first into Crowley’s lap, even if Crowley wouldn’t have known the difference. As it was, Crowley watched him with a hint of amusement curling the edges of his lips.

“Not used to being on couches, eh?” Crowley asked, when Aziraphale had managed to sit upright with a small amount of poorly-faked dignity. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your dad I let you up. What d’you want to watch?”

Aziraphale’s head tipped before he could stop it, and he followed the line of Crowley’s gesture toward the telly. It flicked on as if by magic, and Aziraphale realized he must’ve been holding the remote. The screen was a loading screen for a DVD, one that must have been in the player already.

“I could put on _Lassie_ for you,” Crowley suggested. “We could rent the one with the dogs that play basketball or what have you. Homeward Bound?” He laughed when Aziraphale turned to glare at him. “I didn’t think dogs had opinions about television. You’ll just have to watch more Golden Girls with me, then. The next episode’s a good one.”

The screen began to move when Crowley pressed a few buttons, and then Crowley tossed the remote on the end table and flopped back into the couch. He set his phone, seemingly pulled from thin air, on the arm of the couch and patted his thigh in invitation.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “I won’t bite if you don’t.”

Aziraphale snorted at that, but he eased a little closer, and then a little more, until Crowley reached out a hand and stroked it gently over the top of his head. _That_ Aziraphale leaned into, almost without thinking, the same way he had the first night in the orchard. It felt _good_ to be touched gently, to have contact that wasn’t rough pushes and shoves, to know he wouldn’t hear Crowley say _toughen up, we’re just playing_.

So little by little, Aziraphale allowed himself to melt closer to Crowley, to indulge in the way Crowley’s fingers wiggled into his thick fur all the way down to the skin to scratch. He let his head droop until it lay atop one of Crowley’s bony thighs, until he was a little bit smushed up against Crowley’s side, warm and comfortable.

“...’s nice,” Crowley mumbled after a while. Aziraphale had lost track of time, and finding it again felt like surfacing from a great depth. “Having… someone… just having company. Getting… touching…. Just, nicely.”

Aziraphale squirmed just enough to look up and see Crowley was drowsy, probably not even aware of the words slurring out of his mouth. His hands had stopped moving, buried in Aziraphale’s thick ruff and only giving minor twitches, as if rallying their best to try to continue petting him. It was… charming, in a way. It warmed him on the inside, to see Crowley so willingly vulnerable, even if he thought it was only to a dog.

It was _pleasant_ , to be trusted. He hadn’t ever had a lot of that, either.

He wiggled just a little bit closer, and closed his eyes to sleep.

* * *

Aziraphale stirred a while later to the scent of something cooking. Meat cooking, he thought, wondering what he’d left in the oven a moment before he remembered that was impossible. He wasn’t at home, in any sense, and Crowley didn’t eat. He heaved himself up, squinting into the dawn sunlight shafting in through a gap in the thick blackout curtains directly into his eyes--

\--and directly onto _Crowley_ , whose skin had begun to sizzle at the contact.

Panic seized Aziraphale’s belly, urging him to fix it, to protect; he was built to protect. He surged off the couch and over to the curtains, tugging them closed, but it was quickly apparent that they were not light-tight. They were a stop-gap, something to give Crowley a little more time to get to his retreat. Foolish vampire. Surely the aesthetic of the inside of his house was not more important than his _life?_

The room was slowly brightening, and Crowley’s skin was still vaguely smoking. Aziraphale needed to wake Crowley, needed him to retreat to where he could be away from the damning sun completely. Aziraphale returned to scrabble frantically at Crowley with both paws, and a frenzied bark escaped him. Another followed, and another, but Crowley remained oblivious.

Aziraphale raised his head. There had to be something else he could do, somewhere he could move Crowley that the sun couldn’t reach. He skimmed the parts of the house he could see. The plant room was right out; it was mostly windows, and a sunlight to boot. The back door was made of glass. The kitchen had a window lined with cooking herbs. The door to… Aziraphale’s ears perked. He didn’t know where that door led.

He vaulted over the couch and almost without thinking, returned to a form that had thumbs in order to rip open the door. A closet, but one that held nothing except a very cozy-looking pile of pillows and blankets. That was it, then. This had to be where Crowley actually slept during the day. He glanced up at the doorjamb and noted the thick, black-rubber lining. It would be light-tight, if nothing else.

Thankfully, Crowley weighed almost nothing, or felt like he did compared to Aziraphale’s werewolf strength. He deposited him less than gently in the midst of the pile and pulled a couple of blankets over him just in case before slamming the door shut. For a long moment he stood there, heart hammering away in his chest.

What was he _doing?_

Gabriel wouldn’t have done this. Gabriel would have pulled the curtains open completely. He would have let Crowley roast, would have let him turn to ash on his own couch. He’d have said _serves him right_ , and _he should have been more careful,_ and _seems like a happy accident to me_. He wouldn’t have even thought twice about it. He’d have considered it _winning_.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and let his head thunk against the thick door.

Maybe he just… didn’t want to be like Gabriel. Maybe he wanted to be better than that. Maybe he wanted to have a few thoughts of his own. Change a few things. Maybe not everything needed to be about fighting and winning. Maybe some things could just be about making sure _no one_ got hurt.

He felt the ghostly, comforting echo of Crowley’s fingers carding gently through his fur, and the sound of his voice mumbling reassurances as he fell asleep.

Or maybe Aziraphale had just gotten a little too muddled by the strange kindness of a vampire. Maybe he was just not good enough to do what must be done.

After a little while, he let himself out the back door, four paws hitting the soil, and ran all the way home as though sprinting could outrun his problems.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale did not go back. In fact, he did his level best to ignore the fact that he had a neighbor at all for the next three days. He opened every door, every drawer, every cabinet in the house in order to catalog his aunt’s possessions, but what he found was mostly that she had gotten her affairs in order. Her clothing had already been packed and donated. Her valuable items – like her jewelry, her electronics, her vehicle – had all been documented and were either put neatly away or sent off to where she wanted them to be. Even the obscure paperwork – like transferring stocks and bonds – had been finished and turned in. It was almost as though she had planned on dying, or at the very least been extremely ready for it.

Which, in some ways, made it a little bit easier to have lost her. While he hadn’t been able to get away to see her in person as often as he would have liked, she had been his favorite relative. Whenever he’d needed a little bit of comfort, he would write to her by hand, in the nicest pens he had, on fancy paper, and it had always made him feel better to keep in touch. He had fallen out of the habit in the last few years, and perhaps that was some of the problem here, some of why she was gone with barely a trace now.

Perhaps she had felt abandoned by him, and so she had left.

It wouldn’t be the first time Aziraphale couldn’t live up to expectations and got left behind.

Aziraphale sighed and then jumped when a knock on the door interrupted his train of thought. He glanced at the clock, and didn’t think too hard about the way his heart lifted to realize it must be past sundown.

Sure enough, Crowley stood on his doorstep when he answered. Aziraphale stared openly at his huge sunglasses and his long-necked shirt and his wide-brimmed hat. He was obviously still injured from his run-in with the sun, but he was alive. Sort of. As alive as vampires could ever be. Despite that Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t like that fact, he found himself immensely relieved. Unfortunately, the last thing he could do was show it.

“Oh, good evening… Crowley, was it?” he said instead, hoping he sounded the right amount of nonchalant to indicate that he thought they’d only met once and he hadn’t just nearly watched him die.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, short and a tad scratchy. He leaned, looking past the door, and then seemed to catch himself and slouched a bit. “I just uh… I haven’t seen you- uh, your dog in a few days. Was… I was just… I wanted to be sure we were okay- I mean, that he’s okay. I’m- I’m alright, is all. He um… he was a good dog the last time I saw him. Really- really helped me out, you know. Wanted him to know I’m okay.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of that. “Did something happen?” Surely that was the right question to ask.

Crowley, on the other hand, looked as though he might be ill. “I uh… I hurt myself on accident, and he got me some help. Real good of him, you know. How do you thank a dog? Didn’t like the treats I got.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, rather intelligently. “Yes he- he’s quite picky about food. But I think… you know, I think he just likes to hang out with you? Attention is, after all, a treat to- to dogs.”

“Attention...” Crowley echoed with faint disbelief.

Aziraphale’s heart gave a little twist, and he leaned against the door frame. “Why don’t I send him over in a bit? I was just about to go out. He’d be fine here on his own, but if you don’t mind him, it’d be nice to know he’s got company.”

Crowley stared, or at least Aziraphale assumed he was staring, for a very long moment, almost as though he was trying to decide what to say, or how to say it. Aziraphale nearly retracted the offer, thinking perhaps Crowley had found it foolish and was trying to find a way to say no, but then Crowley nodded.

“Yeah, I- Actually, tonight’s no good, I’ve a friend coming over soon,” Crowley said, too quickly, and Aziraphale’s heart sank a little to realize it probably was not a _friend_. A dinner companion, perhaps, but not the polite sort. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Aziraphale nodded, throat thick. “Tomorrow,” he managed.

Crowley fidgeted a moment longer, and then forced a smile and stepped back off the porch. He didn’t disappear like last time, and Aziraphale watched him walk the edge of the dirt road all the way back home. He wondered if Crowley knew he was being closely watched or if he was in enough pain to not be able to go quickly. He wished that there was something he could _do,_ something other than just watching him, unable to say a word about what he knew without being caught.

Instead of going back inside, Aziraphale stepped onto his porch and closed the door behind him. There was a wooden swing there, old but well cared for, and he took a heavy seat upon it, kicking gently with one heel to set it swinging. He’d told Crowley he was going out, but he didn’t think Crowley would check, not if he was going to have company, and Aziraphale wanted to see if it was the same girl as before. A repeat visitor might actually constitute a friend, at least enough to put Aziraphale’s mind at ease. Anyone that visited a vampire’s lair and returned was probably doing so on purpose, and it wasn’t Aziraphale’s job to interfere with an adult making that kind of decision.

It was not, however, the young woman he had seen the other night. This time it was an awkward young man with thick rimmed glasses and the sort of air about him that said he almost certainly had no idea what was going on. Not just regarding the vampire whose home he was about to enter, but about life in general. He stood on the porch longer than the woman had, scratching at the back of his neck, and Aziraphale had very nearly decided to make the dash between their houses to tell him he didn’t need to do this when the young man crossed the threshold and disappeared into Crowley’s house.

Aziraphale waited a few minutes before his anxiety overtook him. He went quickly back indoors, folded his clothing neatly on the couch, clipped on the collar, and dropped to four paws. The run to Crowley’s took almost no time at all, but instead of going to the front door like he would have if he were visiting, he skirted around to the back and cocked his ears. Werewolf hearing was exceptionally acute, and he could hear them shuffling around inside the house; his memory of the layout was fairly useless at telling where they were, however. The walls muffled and distorted the sound such that they could have been anywhere inside.

“-sorry she couldn’t make it,” the young man was saying when Aziraphale could finally make out words.

“It’s fine,” Crowley said, though it didn’t sound particularly fine, judging by his tone. “I’ve told her before, she doesn’t have to come in person every time. We can use the mail.”

Aziraphale’s nose scrunched at the idea of _mailing blood_ , but he supposed the modern day vampire could afford to be a little more modern. It did give him the odd mental image of humans arranging blood drives the way hospitals did, where volunteers would donate blood in order to prevent vampires from needing to hurt anyone. It would certainly work, if only the general populace _knew_ about vampires in the first place. He didn’t think Crowley would take kindly to having his species outed like that, and Gabriel certainly wouldn’t like it either. Once one supernatural creature was out for sure, the rest would necessarily be quick to follow.

“I think she likes to check up on you,” the young man said hesitantly. “She says… that you’re lonely.”

“I’m not.” Even Crowley’s voice sounded prickly. “I’ve got a perfectly nice new neighbor, I’ll have you know.”

“A new neighbor?” the man asked. “And you’ve met them? Gone over there?”

“Something like that. Hey, don’t-”

There was a soft yelp, followed by a hiss of pain and a growl of _hold still_ as the scent of blood bloomed in the air. Aziraphale’s hackles rose, but he stayed put, counting the seconds as they passed. A vampire could, when they put their minds to it, drain a human body of blood in about three quarters of an hour. The loss was deadly to the human after only a third of that time. He could interfere before it got that far, _if_ it got that far.

However, after only a couple of minutes and a few pained hisses and _be carefuls_ , Aziraphale heard Crowley’s voice say: “There. All done. I’d have been done quicker if you’d have quit squirming.”

“It hurts!” the man said.

There was some shuffling about, and a strange noise like scissors opening and closing several times in rapid succession, followed by plastic rustling. It sounded remarkably like sandwich bags, and Aziraphale actually felt a bit soft to imagine Crowley giving his donor _sandwiches_ after feeding on him. He was not, Aziraphale decided, evil. He was a creature in need of a very particular sort of food, and had found a way to acquire it with permission and – if the last ten minutes had been anything to go by – took care of the humans who helped him afterward.

Aziraphale pushed down any lingering doubts he had, and stuffed Gabriel’s voice into a box where it wouldn’t be heard from for a while, and turned to head back home. He had a lot to think about.

* * *

After having decided that Crowley was not a bad person – or at least, not an evil one that needed slaying – Aziraphale began to relax quite a bit more. He worked around the house or went into town in the mornings, and napped during the afternoons, and once dark had fallen, he visited with Crowley. He had registered for a dog with the city, even though he didn’t technically have one, in order to get the appropriate tags. He’d even bought a vanity one at a pet store; it was a blue, metal bone engraved with “Zira” and his phone number. He quite liked the way the tags jingled together as he ran, even though it was not particularly stealthy.

He didn’t really need stealth, however, not with his new lifestyle. Before, he had been quite close to his pack all of the time and the areas they’d had to run had been small. Sometimes they even ran city streets, slipping around in the shadows between street lamps and dashing through alleys. Now, he had all the open forest he could ever want, and yet what he really wanted was to nose his way into Crowley’s life, starting with his living room.

Crowley, for his part, didn’t seem to mind in the least. In fact, he seemed to relish every chance for Aziraphale’s company. His kitchen soon had small amounts of fresh foods to be used as treats; chicken and lamb and duck, rice and carrots, broccoli, fresh eggs from a farmer down the road. He passed a note to human-Aziraphale, banded to the collar, asking if he could feed each item, and Aziraphale dutifully wrote back with permission, and eventually enough cash to cover the expenses. Aziraphale watched Crowley put it into a jar rather than use it, and somehow kept his mouth shut.

While Crowley did not purchase any dog toys, he did purchase other things. Once his burns had healed and his skin had recovered to a little bit tougher than tissue paper, Crowley introduced a _brush_ to Aziraphale. Several, actually, and each as delightful as the last. One of them had long tines that swept out loose bits of undercoat. Another sleeked over his fur and left it glossy. He had a picker for gently teasing out knots, and something that looked a bit like a weapon and while Aziraphale was not sure exactly what it did, it felt nice sliding over his fur.

He also, to Aziraphale’s mortification, purchased a dog-safe shampoo. Aziraphale absolutely refused to get into Crowley’s bathtub – as if there was room for a fully grown _werewolf_ in there anyway – so Crowley coaxed him outside and squirted him with the hose.

“You’re already wet, may as well take a bath,” he said, and Aziraphale promptly grabbed the hose in his jaws and chased Crowley around the yard with it. They both got absolutely soaked, and Aziraphale decided to let Crowley scrub the shampoo into his fur after all. The careful blow-drying that followed was, it turned out, worth the rest of the fuss.

Occasionally, Crowley sent home a bag with fresh fruit in it, tied to Aziraphale’s collar with a note enclosed. He would let Aziraphale pick out the fruits, and Aziraphale was careful not to ruin any of it. Crowley would say things he couldn’t possibly mean, about how apples were his favorite, or blueberries were especially sweet right now, but Aziraphale didn’t mind.

And sometimes, rather than let him in the door, Crowley would pat him gently on the head and say, “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’ve a guest coming over. We’ll play tomorrow.” Aziraphale would sometimes sit down in protest, and refuse to leave the porch until Crowley took him by the collar and walked him to the grass. He really didn’t want even a dog to see him feed. Maybe he was afraid Aziraphale would turn on him, that Aziraphale would think he was hurting someone and try to stop him. It made Aziraphale ache to tell him the truth of it, but he was certain that if Crowley knew he was a _werewolf_ when he couldn’t even trust a _dog_ , that all of this would come to an end.

So he tucked his tail and flattened his ears and slinked home on those nights, and watched as Anathema, or rarely Newt as her young man was called, visited for a short while, and left with a brown paper bag in hand. Payment, Aziraphale had decided. Probably quite a bit; Aziraphale had watched Crowley fiddling on his laptop one night, and realized he was trading stock online, which answered how Crowley made his money without ever seeming to leave his home.

There was, Aziraphale guessed, at least one other source of income for Crowley- his plants. Aziraphale was never allowed into the room to see for sure, but he had spent one quiet evening trying to separate out the cacophony of scents coming from the variety of plants. He could name at least three of them; belladonna, hemlock… and wolfsbane. While Aziraphale might not have been able to name all of them, he was positive that the rest of them were not any less dangerous.

And he was, Aziraphale was pretty sure, _selling_ them. Or at least _parts_ of them, the parts that he would carefully prune once or twice a month after telling Aziraphale to sit and stay outside of the room. He would take the clippings to the kitchen, wash them, place them in a small dehydrator on the counter, thoroughly clean his hands, and then they would watch a movie together. The following night, Crowley would carefully remove the dried plants, package them in baggies, and place them in envelopes to be put in the mailbox when he walked Aziraphale out just before dawn.

Aziraphale had, the first time, pulled the letters from the mailbox and written down the names of the recipients. It was a bit unethical, he thought, but if Crowley was helping humans _poison_ one another, Aziraphale ought to know.

As it turned out, it was quite a bit more strange than that; Crowley was selling the plants to _witches_. Aziraphale had looked up all of the names online, and while most of them had turned up nothing, two of them had brought up profiles with contact information. Aziraphale had called one of them, pretending to be an affiliate of Crowley’s that was inquiring about the use of fresh versus dried, and had found himself strangely pleased to find the woman on the other end of the phone both knowledgeable and pleasant with regards to her craft. He inquired further about safety precautions, heard back about a range of them, and hung up feeling rather guilty for having deceived both Crowley and his customers.

The feeling got worse as more time went on without Aziraphale telling Crowley the truth about himself. He wanted to, but they were weeks into knowing one another, and then months, and by then it was much too late to let the proverbial cat out of the bag without backlash. Without losing what they had so precariously built upon Aziraphale’s lies.

So he came over at night, and they watched television or tended the plants, and sometimes Crowley read to him and sometimes Aziraphale got brushed and sometimes he just sat with his shoulder against Crowley’s leg while Crowley worked on the computer. Twice a month like clockwork, Anathema came around and Aziraphale got locked out in the yard, where he sat in the grass and tried to reason with the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Gabriel telling him he ought to already have killed Crowley.

Except that Crowley wasn’t _evil_ , Aziraphale argued with himself. He might be drinking blood but he wasn’t killing anyone. He wasn’t even hurting anyone that hadn’t given him permission first.

The guilt wearing Gabriel’s face like a mask didn’t care about any of that. It just sat in his gut like lead and reminded him what the pack would have already done to Crowley. It whispered about how Gabriel would have already killed him, and then killed Aziraphale for letting it slide this long. For being _kind_ to a monster.

But there was an ocean between him and the real Gabriel, and Aziraphale found he cared less every day what the other wolf thought of him. He had a home here, and resources enough that he need never return, and no legal reason to allow Gabriel anywhere near him ever again. He was free to do as he pleased, free to… _care_ about whoever he pleased, too.

And he did. As summer began to give way to autumn and he began to spend his nights watching Crowley gently harvest so much from the gardens they had tended together all summer, Aziraphale realized he could admit that much. He cared about Crowley. Maybe even…

Well. It didn’t really matter how _much_. Crowley thought he was something he wasn’t, and there was no way to correct him now without losing him. Aziraphale wasn’t a fool, either; he knew the day would come. He knew the ruse wouldn’t last forever.

He just didn’t expect it to end so soon.


	4. Chapter 4

Ironically enough, fall was swiftly approaching, both in season and in favor, when an unexpected knock sounded upon Crowley’s door. Crowley paused in his reading, brow furrowed, and Aziraphale picked up his head, ears cocked forward. Neither of them had heard anyone approach, although that was not terribly surprising. When Crowley read aloud, he tended to get deeply absorbed in the story, and Aziraphale came along for the ride. Listening to Crowley’s voice had become a soothing balm for Aziraphale’s restless mind; a source of great peace.

He did not appreciate it being interrupted.

“Now who do you suppose that might be?” Crowley asked him, closing his copy of _Stardust_ and setting it on the coffee table as he rose to answer the door. “Stay here.”

Aziraphale had no intention of leaving his warm spot on the couch, unless it was to slink his way over into Crowley’s warm spot, which he promptly did as soon as Crowley had vacated it. Aziraphale ran a _lot_ hotter than Crowley, which wasn’t difficult given their natures, so the warm spot was not, exactly, warm. But the sofa smelled divinely like Crowley, and it was easy to wiggle into his space and chase after the now-comforting scent.

Although he didn’t follow, he did watch Crowley cross to the front door, and peer through the eye-hole to see who it was. Aziraphale’s belly gave a little swoop of fear when Crowley cursed. Had someone come for him? Were they about to get into a fight? He started to get to his feet, his jingling tags drawing Crowley’s attention.

“Shit, no, stay!” Crowley hissed quickly, glancing back at the door, his hand on the knob. His eyes flickered back and forth as he clearly tried to figure out what to do, and Aziraphale nearly crawled out of his skin with anxiety over what was about to happen. “Okay, listen. You just… sit there, okay? Be a good dog. Don’t move a _muscle_ until she’s gone, do you understand?”

Aziraphale was quite certain that by now Crowley didn’t actually expect an _answer_ , so he just stared back and stayed exactly where he’d been put. Crowley seemed to take this as answer enough, and turned back to the door. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he turned the handle, he plastered on a very obviously fake smile that was not about to fool anyone.

“Anathema, what a _surprise_ ,” Crowley drawled, too sweetly. “You’re supposed to _call_ before you come over, remember?”

“I _know_ ,” the young human woman said, ducking under the arm Crowley was using to bar the doorway before he moved to stop her. “But because I couldn’t make it last- oh.” She stopped in her tracks, staring wide-eyed at Aziraphale, and even before she spoke, Aziraphale knew she, at least, had recognized what he was. “Crowley, are you aware there’s a _werewolf_ in your house?”

That was it, then, Aziraphale thought, eyes ticking from Anathema over to Crowley’s stricken face. The game was over. Whatever chance they might have had at carrying on like this, it had been balanced so precariously upon this one particular lie, and Anathema had just toppled it all with a single truth.

Crowley was a vampire, and Aziraphale was a werewolf, and vampires and werewolves were hereditary enemies. On opposing sides of the belief about whether humans constituted friends or food.

If nothing else, Crowley’s face said it all; there was no going back now.

Aziraphale heaved himself off of the couch, forcing Anathema to scramble out of the way. Crowley hesitated before the prospect of a fully-shifted werewolf barreling at him, which was just enough time for Aziraphale to duck around him and slip out the door. He felt the tips of Crowley’s fingers brush at his rump, grabbing as Crowley called his name, but he missed, and a few seconds later Aziraphale was halfway between their houses. A few seconds more and he was past his house, heading into the preserve to escape.

There was only an hour or two until dawn. If he could stay away that long, Crowley would have to go to ground and Aziraphale could pack up whatever he needed to pack up and head to a hotel someplace Crowley couldn’t find him. He had just finally gotten everything squared away with the lawyers over Aunt Alma’s will and estate, he could turn around and get through the process the other way fairly quickly. At least, he hoped.

If nothing else, he could hand it over to Gabriel.

For now, he had more pressing concerns. He needed distance. He needed-

_Aziraphale!_

He nearly stumbled at the strange, echoing call inside his head, as though he remembered hearing someone speak without having actually heard it. He threw a glance over one shoulder and then the other, but Crowley was nowhere in sight.

_Up here you twit_.

Aziraphale tossed his head back, eyes to the sky, and caught sight of the massive, dark shape of a bat flying irregularly above the trees. He was keeping pace with Aziraphale, and without having to dodge trees or brush, there was no way Aziraphale was going to outrun him. He had forgotten vampires could transform like that. He wouldn't be able to outrun this problem, so he slowed, trotting to a stop and watching as Crowley ducked through the canopy of autumn leaves to practically crash onto a branch above him.

_I’m sorry,_ Crowley tells him, clinging with tiny claws to the thick branch he’d encountered. _I’m so sorry, Aziraphale, please-_

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Aziraphale asked. The words came out a little funny around wolfish teeth and tongue.

_I should have said something,_ Crowley said, finally getting himself arranged to drape a little over the branch.

That did not clear anything up. “Said something about what?”

_About… you know._ He lifted one wing and flapped it around in a gesture that meant next to nothing in that form. _Well, that you’re a werewolf and I’m… not. I knew the whole time, I just-_

“You _knew_?” Aziraphale squawked, and didn’t feel any less indignant to see Crowley roll his huge, yellow eyes.

_Oh, come on, do you really think someone – anyone at all – could mistake a full-grown_ _ **wolf**_ _for a_ _ **dog**_ _?_ Crowley asked. _Not to mention you_ _ **reek**_ _of werewolf, and if I hadn’t been clued in by any of that, did you think I somehow_ _ **missed**_ _that I just walked right into your house that first night? I couldn’t have done that to a human._

“But you’re… why would you…?” Aziraphale was not entirely sure what he was trying to ask, but Crowley had been communicating with him without his input for months now.

_You had your teeth out when you turned up, and I didn’t think you’d believe me if I said I wouldn’t hurt you,_ Crowley said. _Or that I was friends with your aunt, or that I don’t hurt people._

“But you _do_ hurt people!” Aziraphale said, latching onto the first thing to make any sense. His aunt had never told him about Crowley, and a friendly neighborhood vampire definitely seemed like the sort of thing one mentions to the person they’ll be giving their home to. “I’ve seen them come to your place. That young woman from tonight, she-”

_Anathema?_ Crowley interrupted. _You think I’m feeding on_ _ **Anathema**_ _? Aziraphale, she’s a witch! I grow herbs and plants for her._

“But I- I’ve smelled blood before,” Aziraphale protested, although it sounded weak even to his own drooping ears. “That young man she sometimes sends… Newt...”

Crowley somehow managed to look mildly offended at that. _Been spying on me?_

“You’re a vampire! I’m a werewolf!” Aziraphale cried. “Of course I’ve been spying on you! I had no idea what you were up to, and I-”

_Is that why you’d been coming over?_ Crowley asked, his tone suddenly flat. _To keep an eye on the evil vampire?_

Aziraphale swallowed and his whole body followed his ears’ example, drooping as he dropped his gaze to the forest floor. “I… At the beginning, yes,” he admitted softly, chest tight with a sudden fear. He couldn’t be mad at Crowley for not saying something when he’d been hiding what he knew the whole time, too. “But I think that I’ve… not cared about that in some time.”

When he risked a glance up, Crowley was staring at him with an utterly unreadable face. They stood in silence for a long few seconds before Crowley let out a small, squeaky sigh. _Newt cut himself._

“He-”

_Cut himself,_ Crowley repeated. _He mishandled my snips trying to get a bit of foxglove, sliced his hand open._ He huffed, looking away, but when he spoke again his mental tone had changed to a gentle sort of exasperation. _I can’t believe you really thought I was feeding on them._

“You don’t go out and you haven’t exactly had a lot of visitors, you know,” Aziraphale said reasonably, “and I’m pretty sure you have to eat sometime. So if not them, then who?”

_Not who. Haven’t you wondered why a vampire’s got a load of fruit trees in the yard? All those rows of berries? Freezer full of the things? Not a single bag of blood?_ Crowley asked him. _Look at me, Aziraphale. I mean actually look at me right now._

Crowley lifted himself as best as he could on the branch and spread his considerably-sized wings. He was, overall, a lot larger than Aziraphale had expected; he had seen bats before, the little ones that ate their weight in insects every night, and he knew of the aptly named vampire bats who fed exclusively on blood, but Crowley didn’t look like either of those. In fact, he looked quite a bit more like some kind of-

“Oh!” he exclaimed. _Oh_ , his mind echoed as his belly sank with realization. “Oh, you- you’re a fruit bat.”

_I’m a fruit bat,_ Crowley agreed. _A fruit vampire, anyway._

“Did- how- is that even possible?” Aziraphale asked, taking a seat before he collapsed under the weight of reason falling into place. How clean Crowley had smelled upon first meeting, no blood, no decay, different than how Aziraphale had been told a vampire would smell. It explained all of the fruit all over, and the gardening he did.

Crowley settled back down on the branch. _Got turned a few hundred years ago, turned into your average bloodsucker. Went around being… well, right up until I went after a human witch. Agnes Nutter. A mistake or a blessing depending on how you look at it. She trapped me and made me an offer; take death or be twice cursed. Didn’t want to die, so I let her… turn me into this. Cursed me to eat only fruit._

“I see,” Aziraphale said faintly. “And you’re alright with that? You didn’t… hurt her, did you?”

For a moment Crowley dropped his gaze, and Aziraphale felt certain that he was about to make an admission to the contrary, but then he sighed. _Thought about it, sure. But in the end, I was glad to be rid of the need for blood. Can you imagine eating just one thing, for ages and ages? Centuries?_

“I can’t,” Aziraphale said, feeling a smidge of sympathy for actual vampires for the first time. “It does sound awful.”

_At least like this, I can eat anything as long as it’s a fruit._ Crowley flicked a glance at Aziraphale and then up to the sky. Aziraphale followed his gaze up, but there were clouds over the stars tonight. _The reason Anathema comes over is because I promised Agnes I would watch over her descendants. Anathema is one of them. She married Newt last year. She’s a witch, too- like I said, just comes over to get plants._

“You mail them,” Aziraphale said, wincing a little at how they sounded. “I mean, you mail them to others, not just her.”

Crowley snorted and looked back down. _You really have been spying on me. Somehow you missed the way the fruit trees always have fruit?_

“I noticed,” Aziraphale said. “They smell of human magic.” He paused and studied the ground. “I probably should have put that one together. But then… why didn’t you say something? Once we were… getting along.”

_I thought I was!_ Crowley said, his mental tones colored with a bit of amusement. _I kept doing things that I thought for sure you wouldn’t allow. Teasing you and offering you treats and brushing you and- for light’s sake, Aziraphale, I gave you a_ _ **bath**_ _. You just kept pretending to be a dog, so eventually I just… let you. I figured you had to know, and that… that was what you wanted. I don’t want to make you do things you don’t want to do. Not ever._

Aziraphale sighed, heart heavy. “Then I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of a fool,” he said quietly. “Can we, perhaps, start over?”

Finally, Crowley relaxed and even though he was still a bat, his expression seemed softer now. _I’d like that,_ he said, pulling himself a little clumsily forward on the branch so that he practically hung off the front, ready to fly. _The sun’s going to be up soon. Will you come back at dusk? I’ll leave the door open._

Aziraphale nodded, a strange motion in his wolf form. “I’ll see you then.”

He watched as Crowley fidgeted a moment longer and then dropped, winging away into the distance.

* * *

Aziraphale shifted nervously from one foot to the other, tugging fussily at his overcoat and trying to convince himself that everything was going to be alright. That he hadn’t messed this up too badly. That Crowley had _invited_ him back, which meant that he still wanted to see him.

Before he could twist himself into any more knots about it, he reached up and used the knocker to tap out a greeting. Crowley had said dusk, but Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to just walk in on his own, and he thought Crowley might appreciate a little time to prepare. Crowley’s face when he opened the door said that might have been a bad choice.

“I was starting to worry you wouldn’t come,” Crowley said softly, opening the door wide enough to clearly indicate an invitation. “Thought maybe I’d spooked you off.”

“I’m a _werewolf_ ,” he said as he stepped carefully over the threshold. “We don’t _spook_. We _are_ spooky.”

Crowley’s eyes twinkled when he smiled, and Aziraphale’s heart gave a little flutter to be looked at so openly, to be so seen, so _known_. “You’re lucky I’m a big fan of spooky, then.”

Aziraphale could feel the heat in his cheeks that surely meant a blush, and he looked away for a moment before glancing back with a smile. “I suppose I am.”

And then the door was closed, and Crowley was there, and Aziraphale had no idea what to do with his _hands_. He’d never had _hands_ inside of Crowley’s house, not while Crowley was conscious anyway, and he’d never had to talk about anything, and it was not like they were going to sit down to dinner together, except- except he raised his nose a little to sniff the air as the scent of spiced pears overtook the scents from outdoors.

If anything, Crowley’s smile widened when he saw the motion. “I set a timer on the slow cooker,” he explained. “I thought you might like to try poached pears with me.”

“Can you?” Aziraphale asked, meeting his eyes. “You haven’t got to, just… suck out the juice?”

And there was Crowley’s real laugh, the bright one Aziraphale loved, and something within Aziraphale relaxed at the evidence they were going to be okay. “No, I can eat the whole fruit. In fact, I’d say this is a new recipe I’ve been _dying_ to try for the last hour, but… well.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped Aziraphale at the pun and he began to move toward the kitchen and the absolutely heavenly scent wafting out from it. “You’re terrible after all it seems.”

Crowley followed after him. “Does that mean you’ll leave?”

“Decidedly _not_ ,” Aziraphale said, glancing over his left shoulder to show a smile before he crossed to the drawer with flatware in it. “Obviously I must stay, to thwart you. Make sure you’re still... eating fruit and minding your plants and being nice to Anathema and Newt.”

“And feeding my new neighbor?” Crowley suggested, stepping into the kitchen and reaching to open the cupboard with bowls. “Perhaps giving him belly rubs on the full moon?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help it; he laughed. But… “It certainly wouldn’t do to stop, now that he’s gotten used to them. And he could… use a friend, I think.”

Crowley passed him a bowl, and he traded back a spoon. “Me, too,” Crowley said. “And that seems like a perfectly fine Arrangement to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! Thank you for reading!
> 
> And since it was brought to my attention, I would like to remind everyone that vampire legend speaks of vampires that turn into bats, BUT it also speaks of vampires that turn into wolves. I'd like to think that the latter are the sort of vampires that started off as werewolves.


End file.
